


Winner Take All

by AnotherAnon0



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Anal Fisting, Bondage and Discipline, Boot Worship, Breathplay, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Domestic Discipline, Explicit Sexual Content, Gasmasks, Hate Sex, Heavy BDSM, Homophobic Language, Human Furniture, Leather Kink, M/M, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, S&M, Slut Shaming, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:47:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24711829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: The rivalry between Nicholai and HUNK was legendary among all factions of the Umbrella paramilitary corps.But they only knew the half of it.~"I know you hate this, so lemme' make you a deal." He said, continuing in a breathy mutter, "We go to that room, and I'll let you out of this at dawn."Nicholai stared at the door intently. It had a mischievous aura he couldn't quite place, but would understand soon enough."What? Are you scared, Nicholas?"
Relationships: Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/HUNK
Comments: 11
Kudos: 48





	Winner Take All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShipVigilante (CaxceberXVI)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaxceberXVI/gifts).



> A Note: I am going off of Resident Evil 3 (original) director Kazuhiro Aoyama when giving HUNK his name. According to a play through done with Aoyama, translated by Alex Aniel, in 2018, HUNK's name is... Hank. HUNK was a Japanese mistranslation stemming from the fact HUNK and Hank use the same characters and pronunciation in Japanese.

They had an agreement. 

At the end of every month, their mission statistics would be meticulously calculated and compared. 

Employee data and platoon compositions were confidential and only accessible by certain people, and only when assessments were demanded by headquarters. But those only came once per year, if that, and that wasn't good enough for either one of them.

Nicholai was tech-savvy, and hacked into the Umbrella HR accounts with ease using the little laptop that had become as ubiquitous with his mission kit as his SIGpro. The one known as ' _Death_ ' but named Hank loomed over his shoulder when he did, the two pairs of eyes illuminated by the twilight blue glow of the Russian's computer screen as they simultaneously searched for the information they sought. 

Neither one of them wanted to be the _bitch_. Four waking hours of excruciating humiliation servicing every need and whim the other had -- shopping, errand-running, massages, menial chores, even doing the other's paperwork. 

But Nicholai had been overconfident.

Two months ago, after three months of consecutive victories aided by his willingness to shoot down his own teammates, the slippery American had proposed to him raising the stakes of their agreement -- winner take all on the third month, the loser being the bitch for a full twenty four hours. 

He had been reluctant to accept, but the chiding taunt which followed the prodding offer consumed his ego instantaneously, like a paper napkin dampened with butane to a flame.

" _What? Are you **scared** , Nicholas_?"

He knew it was a mistake the moment they'd shaken on it. 

But they had an agreement, after all.

They'd sworn it on their old military medals. The ones they had from when they were honourable soldiers for honourable causes.

Nicholai had cursed his own stupidity under his breath every moment since Hank had declared victory. His eyes had fluttered shut in annoyance as a jovial bellow had escaped the other man, the computer screen of illegitimately-acquired results very obviously indicating the other man had surpassed him on two fronts; Speed and spend.

 _Twenty four hours_. It had beat through Nicholai's skull like a jackhammer.

Hank had blindfolded him when he'd brought him to his condo -- one he told him he'd kept leased a short distance from the main Umbrella barracks. Nicholai had never bothered renting a space. He was never at the facility long enough to warrant it. 

_"_ This is dumb. I don't care where you live, you stupid idiot. _"_ Nicholai had protested, crossing his arms tightly over his chest as he was buckled into the car's seat. But HUNK had insisted. It had been a long drive to wherever it was, and Nicholai had almost fallen asleep when the black sedan finally stopped. He had been guided out of the car, a prodding hand gripping tightly around his elbow as he was guided into a building, onto an elevator, and up to a space Nicholai had counted was on the 15th floor.

The blindfold came off after Hank had drawn all the curtains in the unit, though Nicholai didn't know if that was because the older man was preventing him from seeing what was outside, or preventing neighbours from looking in. 

It was a simple home. Stylishly open-concept. After the lights were turned on, Nicholai took in the pristinely white, utilitarian, cultureless Swedish furniture with a cringe of distaste.

The first order came with the loud clank of housekeys being tossed onto the foyer console. 

"Make me dinner."

Nicholai snarled at the command, watching the other man wave his hand dismissively as he plunked a seat at a stool by the kitchen island as he slipped off his leather jacket and hanged it on the coat-tree by the door. 

_Twenty four hours_. It became as a mantra in his head, pulsating at his temples as he sorted through the fridge, freezer, and cupboards, determining what he could prepare with what was available. 

_Plov_. 

An easy enough dish his mother had taught him to make when he was a boy.

He counted the seconds silently as he methodically worked through the long-internalised recipe, quietly chopped vegetables and meat, portioning rice and water, and stirring the contents to a boil in a large pot he'd found stashed in a stupid place. Based on the condition of everything in the kitchen -- every piece of wood and stainless steel nearly unscathed -- the American clearly didn't cook for himself that much.

"You're actually a good cook." He'd said, spooning the beef _plov_ into his mouth with a happy hum, "You should consider being a housewife, Nicholas."

"Nichol _ **ai**_." He sneered, nose crinkling in disgust as he cast a venomous glare over his shoulder at the other man, scrubbing the pot he'd prepared the seasoned rice in over the sink as Hank maintained his childish throne atop the island stool.

"I like Nicholas better."

He'd cleaned the kitchen with a reluctant aggressiveness, seconds ticking away in his head involuntarily, groaning in annoyance when Hank _politely asked_ him to do the laundry, pointing towards a hamper in the adjacent den. He'd grumbled all the while shoving the clothes into the washer, tossing an inappropriate amount of detergent in and not quite caring what buttons he hit.

He was then _gently requested_ in the living room to be used as a footstool.

Hank was reading some western novel -- _True Grit_. Nicholai had caught a glimpse of the revolver motif emblazoned cover as he'd dropped to his hands and knees on the lush, white carpet. Two heavy legs perched their way across his lower back, prompting him to shift his arms a bit to adjust his centre of gravity. His eyes combed the pile of the carpet, snarky self-criticism rolling a reel through his mind as he desperately wished he could go back in time and never accept that stupid challenge. 

For a long while, the room was silent but for the occasional, soft turning of pages. Nicholai could just barely see a television set in the corner of the room in his peripheral vision, but, like most of the condo, it looked like it had never been used. He could hear Hank's breath gently ebbing and flowing from his nose, a wall clock clicking chipperly somewhere in the distance. For a moment, he thought the other man had fallen asleep.

For a moment.

"You make a good housewife _and_ a nice piece of furniture, Nicholas." He suddenly sighed, closing his book and tossing it beside him on the couch, "You should drop the mercenary crap and come live with me."

" _ **Fuck**_ you."

Nicholai yelped in shock when one of the boots that had been resting on his back came around to his side and pushed it roughly. He lost his balance, numb hands and knees buckling under the sudden force, and toppled over onto his back. 

Hank stood from the couch, looming above him with a smug smirk. 

"You lost. You're the _bitch_." He pursed his lips comically, "Ditch the attitude."

"Fuck no." Nicholai spat defiantly, propping himself up on his forearms and casting a venomous glare at the towering mercenary.

Hank lifted his boot and casually set it atop Nicholai's waist, leaning down slightly but not applying tremendous weight. The Russian grumbled in protest as he watched a devilish smirk pull at the other man's lips.

"You see that room over there?" He flicked a finger in the direction of the hall, reorienting Nicholai's gaze.

All but one door, one at the very end, was open.

"I know you hate this, so lemme' make you a deal." He said, continuing in a breathy mutter, "We go to _that_ room, and I'll let you out of this at dawn."

Nicholai stared at the door intently. It had a mischievous aura he couldn't quite place, but would understand soon enough.

"What? Are you **scared** , Nicholas?"

If accepting the challenge had been the first thing he'd regretted, accepting the bargain was the second.

Reluctantly stripping under Hank's watchful eye, he couldn't help but comb his gaze from corner to corner of the red-walled room. 

Chains. Whips. Phallus-esque toys. Devices Nicholai had never seen and couldn't place the function of -- all of which was proudly displayed on shelves and racks and looked substantially more used than anything else in the condo.

He'd never known Hank to have an _appetite,_ and certainly would never have imagined it would have been one which included... _those_ things. The man was as stoic a soldier as any, and Nicholai couldn't recall him ever having any intimate interests as long as they had known each other.

"You're less surprised than I expected you to be." Hank had chided in amusement, noting the wide-eyed expression on Nicholai's face upon entering the room was shorter lived than he'd anticipated.

Nicholai sneered while unbuckling his belt, " _Moskva_ was a crazy place in the eighties." He sighed, voice dropping to a murmur as he pushed his trousers down, "I just want to be out of here."

Hank took a moment to appreciate Nicholai's body as the man slipped his feet back into his boots and re-laced them, complying with the order he had been given. 

The Russian was leaner than he was, sinewy muscles dancing under pale flesh with every tiny movement he made. Hank felt his hands wringing at the hem of his light fatigue jacket, but he controlled his breathing with expert precision. 

Nicholai crossed his arms when he was done, a confident look of smugness penetrating his features. He was unashamed of his fetishistic nakedness.

He had no reason to be ashamed.

"Well?" 

"Get on the table."

He rolled his eyes at the order, dropping his arms childishly and turning to the platform that was just behind him. A re-purposed medical table -- metal, but with a thin, black, PVC layer of rock-hard cushioning lining the top. Wiggling up onto the surface, het let Hank guide him back, the soldier stepping around to take his shoulder and leading him until he was centred before prodding him to lay.

Nicholai shivered. The table was cold and pocked his tight skin with goosebumps.

 _Dawn. Dawn_.

It became his new mantra. 

He sucked a breath through his nose and closed his eyes as the rattle of chains drew closer. Closer. Closer until their cool scrape rubbed harshly across his wrist. Hank demanded his other, and the two were crossed and bound with a few loops of the thin link before being pulled tightly over his head and secured to a lock that must have been somewhere on the back of the table. The latch's rocking _click_ was abusively loud, as was the _crack_ of it falling against the metal body of the side of the table.

Hank's hand dragged its way down the chain, trailing against his forehead, sliding past his nose, dipping down his chin to his neck, collarbone, sternum. 

He shivered again, telling himself it was just the table. Lying.

Nicholai's eyes fluttered open to see Hank assessing his chest, a devilish smirk frozen on the man's fixed face. 

"You got cute lil' pink tits, Nicky."

"Gah!" Nicholai scoffed, furrowing his brow in a pathetic protest. His darkened eyes shot open in shock when a flash of pain blasted through his chest, Hank pinching one of his nipples abruptly.

"Let's see if we can't get those a nicer colour, eh?" He flicked the distressed, hardening flesh after releasing it from the impossibly tight grip of his thumb and forefinger, turning to the small table behind him and sliding open a small drawer. There was a rattling as he sorted through whatever was inside -- shiny metal toys Nicholai couldn't quite make out as he tried to crane his neck to peer over his strained tricep.

Hank pulled out a short, thick chain and dangled it amateurishly over Nicholai's face for a moment, "Know what this is?"

Nicholai didn't bother answering. He didn't need to.

The metal clips on either end of the chain had blunted teeth that sunk into his flesh painfully when Hank secured them to each of his nipples, prompting the Russian to gasp loudly, grimacing in discomfort. When Hank tugged on the chain playfully, Nicholai buckled. The chain rattled against the table as he tugged on them, trying to find his bearing. 

" _B... blyat_..."

Hank had tightly secured a gag around his jaw before slipping the gas-mask over his face. The rubber and leather squeaked slightly as it stretched to accommodate his cheeks, full with the solid, red ball half-sticking out of his mouth. The shiny, flexible material popped over his chin slowly and created a seal that was reinforced with the four buckle-laden straps that bit into his neck and head as Hank tightened them. 

It was an older gas mask. Antique. Nicholai had pegged it as a German M-38, possibly from World War Two, as he craned his neck to watch Hank picking it out from the cabinet to his left. The distorted, amber-tint of the lenses cast a sinister glow over what of the room he was still able to see through his limited purview. 

Breathing was difficult. His nose desperately sucked air as he tried to keep saliva from pooling through the corners of his lips. His sensory landscape was filled with the smell and taste of polished rubber and leather.

It became more difficult when he felt something slip around his neck. He could see Hank bobbing across his lenses, intent focus directed at whatever on his neck he was prodding at roughly.

When the brief _ting_ of a buckle sounded, realisation dawned on Nicholai and prompted an attempt at a heavy grumble of annoyance, stifled by the gag and gas mask.

 _A collar_.

He could hear Hank giggle stupidly, "Just trying to make you look pretty, Nick!"

"Fff...k yyy..." It was all the protest he could muster through the gag, a small, muffled yelp escaping him as Hank tugged on the chain of the nipple clamps suddenly, interrupting his attempt at venom.

"Now, now, Nicholas. Be nice."

Hank smiled as he watched a delightful flush of red come over the flesh. Nicholai's nipples were swelling under the pain of the clamp's teeth, causing them to bite in even harder. He licked his lips, turning back towards the cabinet he'd retrieved the gas mask from and grabbing something from inside. It never came into Nicholai's line of vision, even as Hank moved closer again, but he immediately knew what it was as the man began fiddling with the respirator on the front of the mask. 

"Just breathe. Breathe slowly." Hank mewed in soft encouragement as he positioned the cap over the filter, "Take a last breath, deep." 

Nicholai complied, sucking air through his nose until his lungs were full. The American admired the decorative curvature of the man's ribcage penetrating the wall of muscle in his abdomen as he inhaled deeply.

The cap screwed on with a rusty grind, smothering the airflow into the mask. Hank left it loose enough that Nicholai would still be able to still catch the occasional wisp of oxygen from it. He'd need it.

Nicholai was struggling to remain calm, a sudden claustrophobia overwhelming him. He wasn't focusing on what Hank was doing anymore, not wasting precious air and energy to crane his head and search for him through the bright, amber-tinted lenses of the mask. He looked above him, fixating on the various hooks drilled into the ceiling, silently wondering who else had lain on the table, and for what reasons.

Two snaps cut the silence of the room, unmistakable for anything but the sound of latex gloves being adjusted over wrists. 

"Everybody at U.S.S talks about you, ya' know." Hank's voice hummed chidingly. Nicholai was simply counting his own shallow breaths. "No one believes you're _that_ good. They all assume you just fuck and suck to get ahead in the company."

Nicholai attempted a glare through the lenses, eyebrows furrowing in whatever meagre protest he was capable of giving in his current state.

"Is it true the janitor caught you with that nutcase... Vladimir? Spencer's guy?" Hank stopped and leaned to peer into the amber lenses, scoffing at the glare being shot at him through the glass, "You did, didn't you? You fucked _the Colonel_." He _tsk'd_ , clicking his tongue against his teeth, "Filthy slut."

Hank's eyes pulsated through the barrier into Nicholai's for a stoic moment, a smirk slowly crossing his handsome face, " _Unlike you,_ I don't need to spread my legs to get ahead."

The only response Nicholai was capable of giving was grunting in indignation, keeping his lips sealed around the ballgag and taking tiny breaths in an attempt to conserve his oxygen. 

_Dawn. Daw--_

An incredible sensation bellowed from his hips, interrupting all of the controlled thoughts he was pacing through in his head.

Cool. Moist. 

Hank was pouring lubricant over him. It was dripping down his groin, passing along the curves of his thighs and leaking lower and lower into his most sensitive contours. It was far more lubricant than needed, but Hank loved the sloppy, pearlescent shine it gave Nicholai's impressive member -- one that was slowly responding to the accumulating sensations.

The American tossed the bottle of lube to the side unceremoniously, barely caring enough to snap the plastic lid shut before doing so. 

It didn't matter to him. Nothing in that moment mattered more than scooping up the dripping-wet cock and squeezing it as tightly as he could. 

Nicholai buckled, hips shooting up off the table, grinding into the touch. His carefully constructed plans about retaining oxygen were lost as a lungful shot out of his nose, desperate gasps and grunts trying to make their way through the ballgag. 

"It doesn't take much, does it?" Hank laughed, giving Nicholai's arousal some firm, expert strokes as he jeered at him tauntingly, "Let's see if I can break the _silver fag_ tonight."

He stretched his hand across Nicholai's groin, pushing and kneading the sticky, desperate flesh aggressively. He could hear the man gasping, and began chiding him through slow breaths as he knew his lungs were likely depleted of their stores. He stopped his harsh palming to give the younger man a moment to reorient his breathing, ragged, anxious noises whinging pathetically from inside the gas mask. 

Hank's glove was fully saturated with the lubricant he'd massaged into Nicholai's hard, red cock, wispy silver pubes, and firm, round balls. He dipped past them, fingers sliding along the wet contour of Nicholai's inner thigh until he was able to find a tight entrance to prod at. 

Nicholai buckled again, whimpers and moans becoming weaker as he struggled for air. Hank used his other hand to guide Nicholai's leg up, pulling at the laces of his boots until his sole was planted on the table, exposing him more clearly. The Russian instinctively perched his other leg in the same position without prompting.

"At least I don't need to be worried about getting you ready..." Hank sneered, "Seeing as you're already the company slut and all."

A quiver wracked Nicholai's body when a finger slipped into him. The chain of the nipple clamps clattered slightly as he pulled on his restraints, straining his abdomen uncomfortably -- body incapable of jerking away. 

Hank suppressed a sigh as he worked the tight, hot hole, bobbing his finger in and out in a methodical rhythm. He kept his other hand firmly planted on the toe of Nicholai's left boot, holding the foot down incase the man buckled again. 

The second finger slipped in unceremoniously, popping beside the first and earning him a guttural tremble from the man he was penetrating. 

When the third punctured the entrance, Nicholai jerked his head up, eyes hazy but wide beneath the amber glass lenses.

"Just two more, Nick!" 

Nicholai shook his head frantically, needy, gasping pants wracking his chest as too-little air trickled through the loosely-lidded respirator to sustain his groans and yelps.

"I think you can handle it..." Hank grinned, "You ain't no little virgin. You're a dirty Ruskie whore and everyone knows it."

He moved his other hand from the toe of Nicholai's boot to his cock, stroking it roughly as he worked a fourth digit in.

Tightness. Resistance. Strain.

Nicholai was struggling to breathe, weakness welling up through his muscles as he tried to fight against that which he couldn't fight against. He felt like he was drowning in flames -- a boiling burn smoking up from his hips and into his stomach. Drool was pooling in the mask. He wasn't able to contain it anymore, and it sputtered past the ballgag with every attempt at a gape, yelp, or moan.

Hank tucked his thumb in his palm, pushing against the tight ring of muscle slowly, pulsing his hand against the entrance until he felt his knuckles sink into the body beneath him. 

He stopped his expert stroking of Nicholai's engorged cock for a moment, reaching up and loosening the cap of the respirator. The other man hyperventilated and sputtered desperately for the few extra tendrils of oxygen that flooded into the constrictive space, sucking sharp breaths through his nose. He gave Nicholai a few seconds to take in the air before screwing the cap on again.

"There ya go, Nicky boy." Hank jeered deviously, applying steady pressure to his fist as it worked deeper and deeper, "See? I'm benevolent."

Nicholai was whimpering pathetically, stomach convulsing with every tiny twitch in Hank's hand, every millimetre it sloppily shoved its way further. His tongue was running over the ballgag in his mouth, teeth grinding into the solid rubber ball anxiously. His eyes were closed, head cocked back, and the muscles in his arms were quivering with tightness.

"How many fat cocks have you taken? This was a cakewalk!" Hank laughed malevolently, every taunt he flung at the other man stoking the fire in his hips. Once his wrist was enrobed in the tight flesh of Nicholai's entrance, he began to work his hand out slowly, delighting in the filthy squelching noises that accompanied the lube-soaked glove finding a steady rhythm of penetration. 

Time and action became a haze. 

Nicholai had come at least twice by the time he finished fisting him, reddened cock spurting out tendrils of creamy cum across his belly and prompting an animalistic response in Hank -- his own erection straining painfully against his fatigue trousers and demanding attention. 

He'd barely remembered roughly pulling his fist out of the other man, not even bothering to dispose of his gloves before he began to wrangle his belt and fly, pulling himself out and propping himself on the table between Nicholai's knees. He'd penetrated without consideration, moaning loudly and hurling insulting slurs at the Russian as his cock punctured his body without the slightest bit of resistance.

The waves of new stimuli from every sensory capacity he had were the only things keeping Nicholai from passing out, eyes practically rolling behind his lids as he hazily fell into his role as Hank's cock sleeve. Whatever was left of his conscious mind desperately praying the man wasn't far from climax with every moment that passed. 

_Air_.

He sputtered pathetically when the cap of the respirator was unscrewed completely. Still between his legs, Hank began loosening the head harnesses of the gas mask, pulling it off to reveal a sloppy mess of drool leaking down Nicholai's face. 

_Air_.

Hank had frantically unbuckled the ballgag too, groaning in delight as a veritable waterfall of saliva pooled out of Nicholai's sore mouth with a pained, random amalgam of Russian and English syllables. The unconscious muttering transmuted into a yelp of anguish as he tugged the clamps loose, ripping them from the swollen flesh and excitedly noting the purple and yellow bruises blossoming deeply on each nipple.

Nicholai came again, the pain forcing his body to react to the extraneous sensations of relief and agony in the only way it was able to.

What pushed Hank over the apex was the desperate gasps for breath emitting pathetically from lips red, flushed, and unable to close for an aching jaw. He forced himself in, hips knocking against Nicholai's body abusively before spilling his seed deeply in the other man's stomach, his own breathing becoming ragged with satisfaction.

Hank gave himself a moment to recover, slipping out of the loosened hole when he was physically capable of it, a flushed, lusty smirk squeezing his cheeks into rosey balls. A glimmer of white teeth just barely popped through.

"Beautiful." He muttered sardonically, mocking the mess he'd made of the _silver fox_.

He'd let Nicholai lay for a few minutes, unlocking the chains around his wrists and watching the cramped, strained arms fall to the man's sides uselessly. Nicholai had gone silent but for soft, quivering pants of intersecting pleasure and pain. 

Collar still on, Hank clipped a lead he'd pulled from the wall onto the D-ring dangling from the front. He'd hopped off the table and tugged at it, silently ordering Nicholai to move. 

It had been pathetic, watching Nicholai try to stand on quivering legs, boots planting on the floor awkwardly. Hank grabbed him under the shoulder and encouraged him drop to his knees with a gentle push.

"Crawl. It will be easier for you."

And Nicholai listened. Complying with as much dignity as his weak body, saliva-coated face, and cum-drenched belly allowed him to emit. 

The carpet of the living room was soft against his knees and palms. Nicholai could have collapsed right there and fallen asleep but he had orders. 

Hank had settled into the couch with a moan of exhaustion, back falling against the cushions lazily as he tugged Nicholai closer with the chain-link lead. His head rolled back into the soft pillows. Somewhere in the distance, the clock was ticking chipperly. 

"Lick." He muttered, eyes closed as he continued to savour the waves of pleasure still reverberating through his body.

And Nicholai listened.

The sound of tongue lapping on leather was perverse in and of itself. Hank could feel Nicholai alternating between boots every little while, soft pants escaping him when he stopped to roll his tongue back into his mouth and moisten it -- swallowing the mouthful of leather-flavoured saliva. 

Eyes fluttering open, Hank frowned deeply when he saw the pastel glow abusively aggrandising behind the closed blinds of the living room. Sighing, he cut the comfortable silence with a mutter, looking down at the man on his hands and knees on the carpet. 

"It's done. We're done."

The words almost felt hollow, but Hank didn't want to offer a thought as to why.

Nicholai slowly stopped lapping at the toe of his right boot, casting a pensive glance up at him from his position. He sat back on his heels for a moment of respite before rising to his feet slowly, shakily. His face was flushed, lips swollen, eyes hidden behind a shadow of dimness. He turned to the window, slowly walking towards it as he crossed his arms against his chest -- a smatter of coolness tickling his skin. The leash dangled from his neck. 

He peeked through the large, picture window using a solitary finger to pull at the blind, the glow of dying twilight casting thin strips of hazy purple over his pale body. Hank didn't protest.

"It... it's not quite dawn yet..." He murmured. His deeply accented voice was raspy, dry, needy, delicious.

Hank felt a grin biting at his tired cheeks.

They had an agreement, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Gifting this to ShipVigilante because literally this was PROMPTED INTO MY MIND when we were exchanging comments to each other XD
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Check-Up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24865060) by [ShipVigilante (CaxceberXVI)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaxceberXVI/pseuds/ShipVigilante)
  * [In Over My Head](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27693038) by [AnotherAnon0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0)




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